My City
by Marc Spector
Summary: When a deadly nerve toxin is stolen, Batman must track down the thieves before they can unleash the weapon on the unsuspecting citizens of Gotham City.


Torrential rain pounded the cement and marble gravestones of East Gotham cemetery. Bruce Wayne stood solemn and alone in front of the tomb of Thomas and Martha Wayne. He was dripping wet, and coal-black hair clung to his face. Powerful, calloused hands clutched a single red rose like a drowning man clutches a life-preserver. His bulging muscles trembled beneath his hand-made Armani suit-not because of the cold, but because of the anger he felt. The memory of that fateful night was still vivid and harsh in his mind. But, so was the promise he'd made. The promise to never let what happened to them, happen to anyone else.

He dropped the rose onto his father's grave in honor of the elder Wayne's birthday. As it landed in the wet grass, it sounded like the crack of a gunshot in his mind.

He continued to mourn in silence, until he heard footsteps sloshing through the mud and wet grass. Bruce was a trained tracker, and his senses were finely tuned. Just from the mere sound of the footsteps, the rhythm of the gait, he could calculate the height, weight, age, and sex of the person climbing the hill from the south. It was an older man, roughly six feet tall, 175 pounds, and his cologne was so expensive that Bruce could smell it from ten yards out, even through the driving rain.

"Master Bruce," a voice called to him. It was the voice of Alfred, his butler, surrogate father, and closest friend.

Bruce's eyes flitted upward. A halogen light arced skyward from somewhere within the city limits. In the center of the light, emblazoned across the night sky for all to see was the unmistakable form of a bat. He felt himself instantly refilled with a sense of purpose. The walls of anger and despair crumbled at his feet as if a thousand years worth of erosion and decay had occurred in the blink of an eye . He turned in the wet grass and, Alfred by his side, walked back to the late model Rolls Royce. Alfred opened the door for him, and he slipped inside the automobile.

#

"When is this asset of yours supposed to show up?" Agent Johns said the word 'asset' with more than a hint of distaste.

Commissioner James Gordon sighed heavily as he sat behind the heavy dark-wood desk in his office. Books lined the shelves behind him, papers cluttered the desk in front of him, and a small desk lamp flooded the room with amber light. "He'll be here when he gets here," Gordon said.

"It better be worth it," the agent said again. "I'd rather not be in this cesspool of a town any longer than I have to."

Commissioner Gordon steepled his hands in silence, and allowed the agent to continue.

"I'm astounded by the fact that you still have a job," Johns said. "The murder-rate in this city makes John Gotti-era New York look like a bake sale." He ran his index finger across the top of one of Gordon's filing cabinets. It came back caked in dust. "You must have some powerful friends," he said. He rubbed his index finger and thumb together and eyed the dust distastefully. That's when he noticed the shadowy figure standing in the corner of the room. He gasped, went for his weapon, and knocked over a small flower pot. It cracked against the ground, and split in two, spilling dark soil and brightly-colored geranium onto the carpet.

"Agent Johns," Gordon said. "Batman. My asset."

Neither man extended his hand. Batman noticed that Agent Johns was tall and narrow, with a skeletal face and dark eyes sunken into his head. He looked like he had begun the day clean shaven, but now sported something well-past a five o'clock shadow on his jaw. He also noticed the bulge under his left shoulder, and made the weapon to be a 10-millimeter automatic.

Batman stayed in the corner, shrouded in shadow. He was a wraith, and he wore the darkness like a cloak.

"I didn't agree to this, Gordon." The agent looked furious. "He's a vigilante for God's sake!"

Gordon ignored him. "Agent Johns is with the department of Homeland Security," he informed Batman. "He came to me for assistance. I'm coming to you."

"With what?" Batman responded. His voice was deep and full of gravel.

Gordon slid a file across the desk. Batman swooped across the room and retrieved the folder.

"Six hours ago a container of weaponized Blue-ring toxin was stolen from a research facility just outside of Gotham. The perpetrators were armed with automatic weapons and had extensive knowledge of the lab's security systems."

"How much is a container?" Batman asked.

"Sixteen ounces," Agent Johns answered.

"Weaponized B.R.T derives its name from Hapalochlaena maculosa, the Blue-ringed Octopus," Batman stated. "The poison attacks the central nervous system, leading to paralysis of the whole body, accompanied by convulsions and vomiting, and continuing until breathing has stopped. The reaction time is immediate and just a drop is enough to kill a human being. With sixteen ounces, you're looking at a quarter of a million casualties."

"The good news is, Agent Johns and the boys and girls at Homeland don't think this group is going to deploy the BRT. The bad news is, they'll probably be looking for a buyer. We need to stop them before they find one."

"I'll find them," Batman said.

"He'll find them, he says." Johns threw his hands skyward. "We don't even know where to start looking. I can't believe I even wasted my time with this." He jabbed a finger at Gordon. "If this blows up, it's gonna be on you, not me. It's gonna be on you and your goddamn circus freak." He turned a venomous look towards the Batman, only to find the room empty. A gust of wind played with the blinds on the commissioner's window. He looked back to Gordon, his eyes wide.

"If he says he'll find them, he'll find them," Gordon said.

#

InGenetech Labs was housed in a gleaming structure of steel, glass, and cement. A full city block long, and six stories high, its most interesting level was nearly thirty feet below ground in sub-basement two.

Landing softly on the rooftop after gliding in from a taller building, Batman quickly picked the lock to the roof-access door. Once inside the building he made his way down a pale hall flooded with fluorescent light. When he reached the first corner he heard footsteps approaching from around the bend. He stopped in his tracks, crouched and ready. He listened hard, trying to distinguish between the sounds, and deduced that there were two sets of footsteps. When the barrel of the first sub-machine gun broke the plane of the wall, he grabbed it with his left hand and yanked hard, breaking the sentry's balance. Then, with his right hand, he delivered a crushing backhand blow to the man's windpipe, causing him to release the weapon. The blow was so powerful that the man was upended and sent crashing to the hard, tile floor, where his head rebounded with a sharp crack, and his entire body went slack.

Before the second man could get a shot off, Batman smashed the butt of the machine gun into the side of his face. Then he dropped the gun, hid the bodies in a maintenance closet, and continued down the hall. When he reached the elevator, he shoved a batarang between the doors and pried them open. Then he produced the wall-penetrating grapnel gun from a compartment in his utility belt and fired up into the ceiling of the elevator shaft. An explosively propelled dart, equipped with a micro-diamond drill head, attached to a de-cel jumpline buried itself in the ceiling of the elevator shaft. Then, he launched himself into the shaft and used the braking and clipping mechanisms inside the grapnel gun sleeve to "fast-rope" all the way down to sub-basement two.

Upon reaching his destination, he pried open the doors, just as he had done with the doors on the top floor, only to be greeted by a yellow line of crime scene tape blocking his way. He effortlessly ripped it apart and entered the starkly lit corridor. He engaged the thermal imager setting in the star-lite lenses he wore, bathing the hallway in light and dark hues of red. Footprints blazed white against a crimson backdrop. He quickly located three sets of combat boots and followed them.

Chalk outlined the area where they'd executed a security guard. _Bastards_, he thought. _The man probably had a family, children_. He pushed the thoughts away and continued on his path. To his right was a door, electronically sealed. From the file, he knew it was an eight digit key-code, but he hadn't been given the number itself. He dropped to one knee and removed a custom-made digital combination lock-pick device from a pouch on his utility belt. The device spliced into the lock's internal network and applied Batman's very own self-made algorithm to crack the eight digit code. Sixty seconds later the door slid open with a hiss of pressurized air.

The laboratory was a wide open, high-ceilinged affair, lined with animal cages, file cabinets, and computers, and striped with long black-top desks, littered with beakers, test tubes, documents, calculators, and other necessary instruments. The footprints diverged. He followed them all to no avail. There were no clues. The men all seemed to know exactly where to go. They knew exactly what to do. There was no wasted movement. The place didn't look ransacked at all. It looked untouched, except for the chalk outlines of dead bodies. Whoever these men were, they were ruthless, and efficient, and most of all they were well-informed, if not working from the inside.

He racked his brain. _Think, think_, he commanded himself. Then he heard the high-pitched wail of an alarm klaxon, and he knew that either someone found the guards he had incapacitated, or they had waken up early and sounded the alarm. It was already time to go and he hadn't discovered a single lead. But, the night was still young.

#

Cruising along the busy streets of Gotham City with NASCAR speed and precision, Batman effortlessly weaved his way through traffic. He mulled over the fact that he had no leads on a stolen biological weapon that would either be used in Gotham or was brought here to be sold. Then it hit him. He snatched up the emergency brake and pulled the wheel hard left completing a perfect 180 degree turn. Then he dropped the brake and mashed the gas. If the thieves were planning to use the weapon themselves, then it was true, he had no leads. But, if they were planning to sell it, then they would have to find someone to broker the deal for them. If he was lucky, he knew exactly who they would go to.

#

"Where do you want these crates, Mr. Penguin?"

The Batman watched from the shadows of the catwalk as a burly yellow-haired man, wearing a nice-looking black two-piece suit, drove around a forklift loaded with giant wooden crates. Three other burly, black-suited men clutched MP5 sub-machine guns and stood watch. The leader was a short, round man, immaculately dressed with pale, pallid skin, and an extraordinarily long nose. He absentmindedly chewed the end of a pipe and ordered the man to take the crates to the back.

When the forklift driver was out of sight, Batman made his move. Hurling himself off the catwalk into the center of the evenly spaced bodyguards, he extended his powerful legs and drove his boot heels deep into the back of the middle guard, stealing the man's breath and dropping him to the factory floor. Then, in a movement that was too fast to follow, Batman grabbed the gun of one thug and lashed out with a powerful roundhouse kick that caught the other thug square in the jaw. His head snapped and he sank to the ground in a tangled heap. The other well-dressed thug dropped the gun that Batman held and drew an eight-inch serrated bowie knife. He slashed downward and Batman met the blow with the stock of the MP5. The thug brought the knife back up for another downward strike and Batman drove the butt of the MP5 into the man's nose with an audible _crack_. The blow was devastating and the man stumbled. And then the fight was over. Batman swooped in on him, grabbed the knife-wielding hand and drove his armored forehead down into the man's nose for the knockout blow.

The Penguin backed away towards the door, hands up, pleading. "Now, now. I demand to know the meaning of this."

Batman stalked towards him.

"I have done nothing wrong. I have done nothing wrong, and you come into my factory and assault my bodyguards."

"Just get in a new shipment Penguin?"

The Penguin turned his nose up. "As a matter of fact I did. Ten crates of the finest Beluga caviar money can buy. I have committed no crime."

By now he was practically on top of the shorter man. He could smell the stench of day-old fish on the man's breath. He lifted Penguin up by his shirt lapels until they were eye-to-eye. "I don't have time for games, Penguin." He slammed the shorter man into the wall so hard it jarred his teeth.

"What…what do you want from me?" His pipe fell from his mouth to clatter on the factory floor.

"A canister of weaponized B.R.T. was stolen from Ingenetech Labs. Whoever stole it is going to need a buyer. That's where you come in."

"How do you know they need a buyer. Maybe whoever stole it is planning to use it themselves."

Batman dropped the little man to the ground, and delivered a hammer-like blow to his eye, that sent him sprawling into the corner.

"I know."

"Earlier…" the Penguin started. He clutched his face in pain. "I was contacted…" his world was beginning to spin. He probably had a concussion.

"Give me a name."

"We don't use names."

Batman kicked him in the ribcage. "You wouldn't have trusted him without a name. He gave you something."

The Penguin groaned. "It was obviously a fake."

"What was it?"

"Hurley. Donald Hurley."

"How did he pay you?"

"Wire transfer."

"What did he look like?"

"I don't know. He was a normal, average-looking guy. Five-ten, brown eyes, brown hair, mid-thirties."

Batman could hear the forklift returning to their position. He stood up to his full height, his dark, menacing shadow spilled over the Penguin's ugly face. "I'm going to need the bank account number."

By the time the forklift driver returned, he was greeted with the sight of his downed comrades, and no Batman.

#

The Batcave was a sprawling crime-fighting complex located directly beneath the 50-room mansion estate of Bruce Wayne. It housed everything Batman would need in his nightly war on crime, from punching bags to super computers, to a state-of-the-art crime scene laboratory. Alfred Pennyworth was seated in a chair in front of one of the massive Cray supercomputers.

"Alfred, run a name and alias check for me."

Batman could hear the keys being punched on the other end of the secure com. "The name is Donald Hurley."

"Right away sir."

More button punching.

"Three Donald Hurleys in the criminal database sir."

"Any of them sound like they could've pulled off the Ingenetech robbery?"

"It doesn't appear so, sir. Street level thugs. A few Breaking and Enterings, some trespassing, assault with a deadly weapon, attempted murder."

"Military experience, government contacts?"

"None to speak of sir. But, on the topic of government contacts, if you say these men were so well-trained…" More button punching.

Batman waited a beat. He remembered that Alfred had spent some time with British Intelligence before coming to work for the Wayne family.

"I believe the expression is 'jackpot,'" Alfred said. "Donald Hurley is the alias of a former Checkmate operative named Allen Hoover. I'm faxing you his file right now."

The fax came through the Batmobile's miniature fax machine. Batman noticed there was no picture, and most of the file was blacked out. He noticed Hoover's date-of-birth, made him 37 years old. Joined the Army right out of high school. Became an Army Ranger at 21. At 24 he got into Special Forces, then joined the US spy agency known as Checkmate when he was 27. His reason for being discharged from Checkmate after 8 years was blacked out.

"Alfred, you got a location for me?"

"No, but if it's true, that you are dealing with rogue Checkmate operatives, then perhaps a database of local Checkmate safe houses would be helpful."

"How do we know they didn't find their own safe house?"

"Have you ever heard the expression, 'it's better to be lucky than good?'"

"Yes. It's not one of my favorites."

"Nonetheless. Ah, here we go." He recited an address on the outskirts of town.

"Thanks Alfred."

"Of course sir. Oh, and Master Bruce, do try and be safe."

#

In a cozy two-story Tudor out in the country, former Checkmate operative, Allen Hoover, logged onto his computer to check his e-mail. His eyes scrolled down the screen, until he found what he was looking for: a message from someone named Ghoul447. He clicked to open it. His eyes lit up and a smile softened his hard features. He was one step closer to becoming a millionaire. After almost twenty years serving his country, he would finally get what he deserved. He picked up the paperback novel that lay by his computer and turned his attention back to the coded message on his computer screen. When he deciphered it, it would tell him the location and time the deal was supposed to take place.

However, before he could even decode the first word, his living room window exploded inward in a shower of dust, smoke, and glass particles. The initial shock of it stunned him. No matter how well-trained you are, an unexpected explosion is going to shock you. But, he recovered faster than most would've expected, and didn't waste any time looking to see what followed the explosion. If he had he would've been surprised at the man-shaped bat that swooped into the safe-house. Instead he bolted for the kitchen, where he kept a spare handgun, since his main gun hung in a shoulder holster on the coat rack by the front door, and out of reach.

He made it to the gun drawer and produced a small nine-millimeter automatic. Then, using an island in the kitchen for cover, he opened fire on the cloaked figure coming towards him. He managed to get off one poorly-aimed shot before something sharp, and metallic bit into the nerves of his hand. He dropped the gun involuntarily, and clutched at his hand. When he saw what was lodged in it, his mind began to work things out. It wasn't some government spec ops team bursting in through his window, it was Gotham City's own masked vigilante: Batman.

With a pained grunt, he dislodged the bat-shaped object and discarded it, then went to retrieve the gun. But, Batman was too fast. He vaulted over the island and kicked out with driving force, his booted heels powering into the rogue Checkmate operative's ribcage. The blow sent him sliding across the gleaming hardwood floor, until he crashed into the oak-wood cupboard six feet away. The wood cracked like thin ice under the impact.

Batman continued forward, wordless, and silent as a wraith. But, Hoover was instantly back on his feet and in a fighting stance. He had worked too hard to go out without a fight. The two men eyed each other. Hoover circled to his right, then aimed a low arcing kick at the back of Batman's knee. Batman pivoted away from the kick, planted and aimed a kick at Hoover's midsection, but the spy dodged it in time. Hoover then shot forward, almost unexpectedly and delivered two blows in rapid succession: one to Batman's head, the other to his chest. The blow to his chest would have been a knockout blow had it not been for the protective body armor that Batman wore.

Instead, though the blow to the face hurt, he barely felt the one to his chest, and he reached out with powerful hands, and grabbed the lapels of Hoover's shirt, and used it to steady the man, as he drove the crown of his forehead down into the man's nose with bone-crushing force. A sickening crunch followed as Hoover's nose practically exploded, and ran red with blood.

However, Hoover was only dazed momentarily, because he twisted his body, bringing his right arm up, over, and down. Then he drove his elbow up and back into the side of Batman's head repeatedly. The intensity of the blows was so great that Batman had no choice but to release him.

Hoover delivered another snap-kick to the back of Batman's knee. This one landed, and caused the Caped Crusader to teeter off balance. Using his elbow again, Hoover delivered a massive blow to the face that caused Batman to pitch backwards. Hoover, pressing his advantage, launched a volley of vicious blows at the reeling Batman.

Righting himself, Batman used his forearms to deflect the majority of the blows, then caught hold of Hoovers right arm, pivoted using his leverage, and whipped the other man off his feet and sent him crashing down into the center of the kitchen table. The wooden table exploded upon impact. Spilling the chairs around it awkwardly, and spraying splintered wood.

Hoover, battered, and dazed, but undaunted, rolled to his left, then back to his feet. His head was swimming, but he wouldn't let it show. He stood between the living room and the dining room now, and his eyes flitted to his right towards the coat rack.

Batman stepped forward. "You'll never make it," he said, his voice was heavy and rough.

Hoover seemed to agree, and decided to attack instead. With his fists, he leveled two blows a Batman's head. Batman slipped the punches and using his left elbow, delivered a punishing blow to the side of Hoover's head. Then he delivered a massive blow to Hoover's windpipe. The man staggered backward, hands to his battered throat. At that moment, his head exploded.

Batman's eyes grew wide, then he registered the thunk the bullet made as it buried itself into the refrigerator behind him. He dropped to the ground, shortly after Hoover's body did. His mind raced through the scenario. He didn't see anyone on the other side of the window so there must've been a sniper out there, in the trees somewhere. The tree-line was about a hundred yards out. Not an incredibly difficult shot, which meant that the sniper wasn't sent here for him, it was sent here for Hoover. He fast-crawled for the kitchen, when a bullet buried itself in the side of the island spraying fragments of honey-colored wood. He dove in behind it. But, his mind never stopped working. Working its way toward a solution.

His lead had just been killed by a sniper's bullet, but there were other leads to be had. In his mind flashed an image of the coffee table. On that coffee table was a laptop, a paperback copy of Moby Dick, and a notebook. The laptop was what he needed. Hoover's smart phone would also come in handy. His hand slipped into the compartment of his utility belt and he produced three silver pellets the size of marbles. He hurled them over his shoulder, and they exploded on impact, erupting with a spray of thick, grey smoke. Then, using the smoke for concealment he made his move. He ran for the table, and snatched up the laptop. A bullet bit into the ground two feet to his left. Silent as all hell. Another round bit into the floor merely a foot away. Apparently the sniper was content to fire blindly. The next bullet buried itself in the dead man's thigh. Batman ran to the corpse, grabbed him by his lower pant leg, and dragged him behind the island, just as another round slammed into the wood. He checked the man's pockets and found his cell phone. Then, he crawled over to the stove, shifted it out, and unplugged the gas nozzle. Then, he grabbed the laptop and the phone and high-tailed it out the backdoor. Just as he made it to his car, the house exploded, erupting in a massive orange fireball, and spewing chunks of masonry, wood, and glass in all directions.

#

"Anything yet?" Alfred asked. Batman sat at the computer, his cowl behind him like a hood.

"Nothing on the phone, but I did find a coded e-mail on his laptop. I was lucky neither one took a bullet from that sniper."

"I'd say you were lucky you didn't take a bullet either."

Batman grunted.

"What about this coded e-mail you found?"

"Nothing yet. I'm running the code-breaking program as we speak."

"I have a little experience with codes, perhaps I can be of some assistance."

Alfred took a look at the computer screen, then sat down with a pencil and a notebook. Twenty minutes later he looked up. "It's a book code," he said.

Bruce's mind's eye flashed on a recent memory. "Moby Dick was on the table next to the laptop at the safe house."

Alfred turned to a new page in the notebook and copied the coded message onto it. Then he began making vertical slashes after every few numbers separating them. "Page, line, word," Alfred said.

"Brilliant, Alfred. What would I do without you?"

"I shudder to think."

"I have a copy of Moby Dick-"

"Upstairs in the library," Alfred finished. "I'll go retrieve it for you. But sir, before I go, when you decode the time and location of the meet, will you be handing over the information to the police?"

_No Alfred. This is my city. My promise_. That's what he wanted to say. Instead, he said nothing.

"I see," Alfred responded to the silence. "Wishful thinking I suppose."

#

Thunder cracked, but no rain fell as Batman watched the scene play out in front of the East Gotham River. A massive bridge filled the backdrop, while the area surrounding the beach was filled with hundred-year-old brick warehouses and low-rise shops.

Batman aimed a parabolic microphone and watched from the shadows as a silver Land Rover approached from the east, and a black sedan approached from the west.

The microphone would allow him to hear the conversations of the criminals as clearly as if he were standing next to them. He was lucky the rain had stopped. A parabolic microphone worked in much the same way as a satellite dish, and rain would have greatly lowered the effectiveness.

The cars parked twenty yards apart, and their occupants piled out. Three men climbed out of the SUV holding silenced MP5 sub-machine guns. The other man climbed out holding a smart phone. Only one man got out of the sedan.

When Batman saw this, he glanced behind him at the sniper he had hogtied in the corner of the apartment room. It was the second member of Hoover's team. Then, he brought his eyes back to the deal going down riverside. The man who got out of the sedan held an aerosol canister in one hand, and a smart phone in the other.

Batman thought about waiting, but the canister was out in the open. There was no time to waste. He flung himself out the window, and the cape caught the wind and carried him down to the cluster of criminals below, where he hurled a fistful of marble-sized flash-bang grenades. The ground erupted in a fiery-white explosion.

Some of the mercenaries dove, and some of them were blown over by the explosion, but they all hit the ground, clutching their eyes and ears in obvious pain. He dropped gracefully in-between the two parties, and made short work of the entire group. He lashed out with devastating kicks to the lower mandible, the cheekbone, and the temple. One of the men managed to raise his weapon, but Batman was too close, and delivered a hammer-like blow to the lateral brachial cutaneous nerve on the man's upper bicep. As he dropped the gun, the man's face twisted in a look of utter pain, his arm spasmed, then hung limply at his side, and Batman battered him into unconsciousness with one final blow to the head.

"Don't move," a voice sounded from behind him.

Batman looked over his shoulder and saw the third member of Hoover's team holding the canister of B.R.T. in his outstretched arm.

"I'll pop this sucker open. I swear to God."

Batman stood, silent and still, and draped in shadow.

"I'm getting into my car, and I'm going to drive away," he said. He took two slow steps backward.

"Can't let you do that." Under the concealment of his cape, Batman easily retrieved three shuriken-like batarangs from a pouch on his utility belt. The mercenary noticed nothing.

The mercenary's hand reached the car door. He still held the canister up high, his thumb hovered over the trigger.

_Do it, _Batman thought, and he whirled and unleashed the batarangs with unerring accuracy. The small but sharp pieces of metal swooped through the air and buried themselves in the nerves of the mercenary's anterior wrist and forearm. His hand spasmed and the canister slipped from his grip.

Both men watched as the canister seemed to fall in slow motion.

Then it plopped in the mud, unhurt.

"You're crazy," the mercenary shouted. "You could've killed us all."

Batman stalked toward him.

"I'm not afraid of you," he said, as he plucked the batarangs from his arm. As each one came out it was trailed by a ribbon of blood.

"You will be."

Batman stepped into range and the mercenary fired off a vicious roundhouse kick aimed at his head. But Batman moved with almost supernatural speed. He ducked under the kick and with absolute precision, delivered a bone-cracking uppercut to the point of his chin. The merc's head snapped back, and he smashed into the side of the car, leaving a giant man-sized dent.

Batman knelt and examined the canister. There was a small hairline crack in it, but it looked to be superficial. He breathed a sigh of relief. Approaching police sirens could be heard in the background, and he noted the time in the bottom right corner of the Heads Up Display in his cowl. He had kept his promise to his parents. If only for one more night.


End file.
